


The King of Spain

by Potterology



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Emma Swan's Commitment Issues, Gen, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 06:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potterology/pseuds/Potterology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is for suckers. 'You never had to decide which teddy bear you would grab on your way out of the door in the event of a fire.' - A little introspect of Emma on love while incarcerated, as told in second person. T for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Spain

**Author's Note:**

> I'm interested in Emma's backstory outside of Tallahassee. Also posted on FF.

Love, you decide, is for suckers.

Sure, before Neal, you were one of those suckers. Desperate for a squeeze of your own; craving that which your insofar spectacularly pathetic life had denied you; praying,  _literal_  praying, for somebody to love who would love you back, just like in the books and poems and songs. To age ten, love would be parent-formed and dictated by the warmth of hugs, frequency of forehead kisses and quality of bedtime stories. Well, that doesn't work out. At least not for you, because somehow you always wind up with the nutjobs and pervs and kid hoarders looking for handouts.

So, at age fourteen, love becomes embarrassing notes passed between friends of friends, boy to girl, and consisted of shy handholding, awkward first kisses and some sweet, sweet over the bra action. Close but no cigar, unfortunately, as Shelley Pomroy tells everybody you threw up in her basement after she snuck you guys alcohol at a slumber party ( _lie_ ), Lena Banks tells everybody you cut the cheese in gym class and followed through ( _lie_ ), and Bobby Malcolm swears you let him finger you at freshman prom (it actually happened the year previously, behind Mrs Lance's greenhouses, but whatever, the details aren't important). Life is pretty shitty for fourteen-year-old you, but fifteen is the magic number, and damn son if it doesn't make you shake in the miniskirt-that-you're-way-too-underdeveloped-to-pull-off. You think so at the time, at least.

It ends badly. Really badly.

And the point is: Love is for suckers.

Look, the way you figure it, when love was just some abstract thing only the lucky of us got to experience, you didn't have to worry about the soul crushing weight of a broken heart or the knee-aching weight of a growing human being in your uterus. When love was outside your realm of expertise, there was no expectation for when the next thing you were supposed to love came along. You never had to decide which teddy bear you would grab on your way out of the door in the event of a fire. When you got arrested one time for the thing you totally didn't do, because the convenience store owner just fucking had it  _out_  for you, there was no "we're not angry, just disappointed" guilt trip because there was no one  _to_  disappoint. Cutting off your hair and piercing your nipples ( _okay, fine, your nose, you lil' badass_ ) didn't raise any eyebrows with beloved, concerned teachers, because no one gave a single shit about what you did to yourself.

In hindsight, you never had it so good.

But you just had to go and ruin it. Now, you had experience. Now, you understood. Because, like a dumbass surfing in a thunderstorm, you had gone ahead and put yourself out there, unthinkingly giving in to the tingles you felt in funny places (e.g, your vagina). You were weak. And you paid for it. As well you should.

Sucker. Total sucker. Ultimo-sucker-supreme.

Homegirl got taken for a goddamn ride - somewhere between Cell Block H and the exercise yard, you've started talking gangster and you like it - and now, you've got to be somebody's mother. The cosmic balance must just be pissing itself with laughter. Yeah, you think, fucking  _chortle_.

What the hell do you know about mothers? Abandoned by a freeway? Check. And there are no other items on that list because  _you were abandoned on a fucking freeway_ and you have no business procreating, you idiot, didn't you see this shit coming when the universe vomited you on a pavement in the pissend of Maine, of all places? Come  _on_.

You ain't clever, sister, but you ain't dumb.

Monkey see, monkey do. Sure, you are not exactly spoilt for choice when it comes to options. There are no handy freeways in prison. So it's either abortion which you veto pretty early on in the game, or giving the kid up for adoption - but, sweet Jesus, look how you turned out.  _MTV's Preggers: Prison Edition._ Can you, in good conscience, hand the kid over the very same noxious system that fucked you well and truly up beyond all belief? The mental flash of a baby version of you slim-jimming a stroller nearly gives you a panic attack, swiftly followed by a fit of giggles that has the equally pregnant chick in the cell next to you threatening to shiv you with her crack fingernail.

That leaves you with curtain number three: Keeping the thing. Well, the fact that you refer to it as a thing does not inspire the warm and fuzzies.

There's also the tiny fact you wouldn't know what the hell to do with it. What the hell was a diaper genie anyway?

Which brings you back to your original point: If you kept the thing and fed the thing and raised the thing, what was to stop you from loving the thing?

And love was for suckers, as you have already covered with the class.

Man, you don't want your kid to be a sucker. You're a hardened criminal, a member of the slimy underbelly of society, a miscreant, a thief and, by all accounts, a card-carrying connoisseur of badass. Someone literally just threatened to shiv you. That kind of crap doesn't happen to losers, right? ( _Of course it does, but this is a pep talk and goddammit, you are awesome._ ) Your kid can't be a sucker. It is simply not in the law of averages. Or Razors. Or whatever.  _So, Son of Jailbird (bait?)_ , you think,  _I am going to let you fly free_. Adoption it is. By an infertile couple. Or some nice lesbians.

Babies certainly are a hot commodity in the adoption world, that much you remember.

Babies from pretty-cute, if emotionally unstable, terminal fuck-ups even more so, surely. When you think about, folks will be scrambling to adopt your kid. Your kid is going to have to beat parents off with a stick. All those self-respecting, liberal-except-when-it-comes-to-fiscal-policy, minivan driving, tofu eating, vegan, soy, low-fat parents who were just salivating at the opportunity to say, "his/her mother was in prison, we saved him/her from such a  _hard_  life". You're prime fucking rib, or whatever vegans eat, to those people.

So, that's the plan. You give the kid up, you finish your time and continue on with life as you know it. Sorted.

You're a shitty person, that much is clear. But love is for suckers and damn if you are ever going to be made into a sucker again.


End file.
